


Rot

by Victopteryx



Category: Naruto
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dark, Hallucinations, M/M, disturbing imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25251370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victopteryx/pseuds/Victopteryx
Summary: Senju Hashirama killed Uchiha Madara in the Valley of the End.And Senju Hashirama was fine.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara, Senju Hashirama/Uzumaki Mito
Comments: 17
Kudos: 143





	1. Chapter 1

It started slowly – almost innocuously. At first, Hashirama barely even noticed. He certainly didn’t think it’d become a _problem_.

He started to have nightmares, after the valley. In some twisted way, it was almost a relief; he wasn’t _so_ dead inside as to not feel anything after murdering his former best friend. Even if he could justify that murder to himself. Even if he could tell himself it wasn’t murder.

The nightmares were expected. The visions, less so.

Again, it started so slowly and innocuously, Hashirama almost didn’t realize it – a flash of hair here, a noise like scraping metal there. Things he could write off as exhaustion, a trick of the light. But the blood he began to find crusted under his fingernails was harder to ignore. It came off when he scrubbed at his hands, and for a while, Hashirama didn’t think anything of it – maybe he’d gotten a scratch, somewhere, without realizing it, or a bug bite. But it kept happening, and soon he began to find flakes of dried blood in the joints of his knuckles, in the hollows between his fingers, in the creases of his palms.

He was in a meeting, listening to the Shimura clan patriarch argue for an expansion of their clan holdings, when he felt a cold trickle of water down the back of his neck. Hashirama jumped, startled, and whipped around – there was nothing, and no one, behind him. He looked up, but there were no leaks in the ceiling –

The Shimura patriarch was looking at him, impatient and confused.

“Ah, sorry,” Hashirama said, one hand going up to rub his neck. His skin was dry. “Please continue, Tanaka-san.” He could taste gravel in his mouth, grinding between his teeth. His fingernails were crusted with blood again.

Hashirama left the meeting in a controlled state of disarray, and made a beeline to the nearest restroom. He looked in the smooth, polished mirror, and saw himself – which was good, and expected – but he was wearing armor instead of robes, and his face was battered and scraped, and he could taste gravel under his tongue.

“You’ve changed, Hashirama,” said a dead man into his ear, but Hashirama was alone in the restroom, and he was going to be late to his next meeting.

He washed the blood off his hands, swirled water in his mouth to try and rid himself of the taste of silt, and left.

The next few days went as much the same. Hashirama got up, kissed his wife, ignored the taste of blood as his lips left hers, and fulfilled his duties as Hokage. He sat in an office, and ignored the water dripping into his eyes, and the crusted red slowly spreading over his hands, up his arms, as he signed form after form after form.

Hashirama was walking along a crowded street when he saw him. Uchiha Madara stood in the middle of Konoha, in the center of a square, heedless of the crush and swell of the people around him. Hashirama could make out his pitch black hair even from a distance, and his heart soared with recognition – but even as it did, his breath caught in his throat, and he tasted gravel on his tongue, and could feel the rain hitting his skin, and knew that it couldn’t be Uchiha Madara, because Uchiha Madara was dead.

Knowing this doesn’t make it any better, because Madara didn’t _leave_.

His shadow dogged Hashirama’s footsteps all the way back to his house. Hashirama could feel his eyes on his neck as he entered his home, and when he kissed Mito, he tasted blood again.

“You’ve changed,” said the dead man as Hashirama looked in the mirror.

“You’ve changed,” he whispered as Hashirama knelt in the garden, pulling weeds out of the earth with blood-crusted hands.

Hashirama felt hands on his shoulder, and didn’t need to look to see who it was. Madara leaned over him, soaking wet hair dripping onto the plants below.

“Did I deserve it?” the dead man asked, one hand sliding down Hashirama’s back to rest over his heart. His touch was soft, and left damp trails down Hashirama’s yukata, and Hashirama could smell copper. Madara pressed down and there was a sharp sudden pain, as if Hashirama was the one with the wound, as if Hashirama was the one stabbed from behind, straight through the heart –

“Mito,” Hashirama called, sitting up and wiping his forehead. “Can you bring me some of that watermelon?”

Madara didn’t leave as Mito hands him a plate, fruit cut into neat triangles. He didn’t leave as she folds her legs and sits with Hashirama on the _engawa_. He stood before them, arms crossed, armor shattered over his right breast – which Hashirama noticed, because Madara hadn’t been wearing armor at the valley, had he?

“Are you alright?” Mito asked. She laid a hand on his arm. It felt cold.

Madara leaned forward, putting his hands on Hashirama’s knees. “ _Are_ you alright, Hashirama?” he asked. “You’re looking pretty depressed. Can’t perk back up this time?” Blood pooled out from under his palms. staining Hashirama’s yukata. 

“I’m fine,” Hashirama said, and took a bite of watermelon. It tasted like rainwater.

Mito was watching him with concerned eyes. Hashirama smiled at her, and Madara’s grip tightened.

“You’ve changed, Hashirama,” said the dead man as the wound on his chest started dripping down his breastplate.

Hashirama expected the nightmares. It didn’t make them any easier to bear.

Madara gripped the sword in his chest with a desperation he never showed in life, the sharp blade slicing into his fingers like a butcher’s knife. He screamed as a tree took root in his chest, branches bursting through his skin, pushing out through his mouth, through his eyes –

Madara is straddling Hashirama when he awoke, shaking, cold sweat making his clothes cling to his body.

“ _Are_ you alright, Hashirama?” the dead man asked. The sharp angles of his armor dug into Hashirama’s hips. Blood dripped out of his empty eye sockets as he leaned forward, cold, wet hands pressing down on his chest. “You look pretty depressed.” Gravel snagged at Hashirama’s teeth as Madara pressed his mouth to his. This kiss didn’t taste like blood.

Hashirama reached out to the side and felt the smooth bend of Mito’s arm. He wrapped his fingers around it, gently, and stifled a noise as Madara’s weight ground down on him.

“Do you think you deserve this life?” Madara asked, bloodied sockets staring into Hashirama’s eyes. Madara’s jaw was broken, and hung slightly askew as he continued, “Do you think you’ll ever be happy again?”

Hashirama didn’t respond, because he knew it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real, because Madara was dead, and hadn’t been wearing armor, and his jaw hadn’t been broken. It couldn’t be real, either, because Madara had kissed him, and was straddling him like a well-paid courtesan, hips grinding down on his – it couldn’t be real, because Madara would never do either of those things.

Madara’s skin started to melt, dripping in fat globules off his face. There was nothing underneath it. He cocked his head, the motion only causing the skin to melt faster. What was left of his face smiled. The stench of blood was almost overpowering, now – the hole in Madara’s chest sluggishly oozed black liquid onto Hashirama’s stomach.

Hashirama couldn’t remember anything after that. He had gotten out of bed, that was certain – he’d gone to the kitchen, and was sitting, slumped against the counter when Mito found him a few hours later. But he didn’t remember any of it. His mouth tasted like blood and his teeth kept cutting his tongue whenever he tried to talk about it, so he didn’t. Hashirama submitted to Mito’s questioning – he was up to get water, he said, he must’ve been more tired than he’d thought, he fell asleep on the floor, hahaha, how silly of him – anything to get her to stop staring at him with those round, concerned eyes.

Mito could be trusted. Hashirama knew this. He knew that, if he actually told her that he was hallucinating Uchiha Madara, she would help him.

The problem was that Hashirama wasn’t entirely sure he needed help. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted it.

Hashirama sat on the floor of the kitchen as Mito silently made tea, with Uchiha Madara twisting his hand painfully into his hair. Blood dripped out of his eyes, and river water poured out of his mouth, and he could feel the wet press of Madara’s chest against his back. He smiled and thanked Mito as she handed him a cup of tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i drew some very self indulgent art for this on my tumblr, go check it out: https://ancharan . tumblr . com/post/623593417049554944/are-you-alright-hashirama


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has TRIGGER WARNINGS for body horror, gender confusion (honestly if you have gender issues at all I just kind of recommend you don't read this), maggots, homophobia, necrophilia, dubcon, gore, extremely non-negotiated kinks, and suicidal ideation.

“Hashirama,” Mito panted pushing on his shoulder. “Hashirama, wait. hold on.”

“What?” he asked, sitting upright in the bed. Mito sat before him, pale skin flushed, kimono hanging off her shoulders.

She licked her lips and gently touched his face. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Hashirama blinked. “Of course,” he said, drawing closer. “Do you? Is something wrong?”

“...No,” Mito said at last, looping her arms around his neck, twining her hands in his hair. “Nothing’s wrong. You’ve just seemed... I just wanted to make sure you’re actually here, with me.”

Hashirama knew what she wanted to say, and smiled, kissing the inside of her wrist. “I’m fine, Mito,” he said, and he almost meant it, too - the visions had almost completely vanished over the last week or so. Hashirama could hardly even see the blood crusted under his fingernails. “I’m here, with you, and I want this.”

“Good,” Mito said, and kissed him, deep and slow. Hashirama licked the blood off her tongue and thought nothing of it - it was just a little blood; he could handle that. He pulled the kimono free entirely, but when he reached up to grasp at her breast, Hashirama’s fingernails scrabbled against cracked armor instead.

“Oh,” Mito breathed, pulling him down into another kiss. There was gravel between his molars, and Hashirama broke away, tonguing a hot stripe down the side of her neck. Mito’s wild black hair caught at his hands, and the river water sloshed around them as he sank down, and down.

“Hashirama,” Mito moaned in a voice not her own, and Hashirama’s hands snagged on the chinks in her armor as he parted her legs. “Are you happy, Hashirama?” Mito asked, even though her mouth was busy biting onto her fist and did not move. “Is this what you wanted?”

Mito’s gloved hands tore at Hashirama’s hair, forcing his head down, and deeper - Hashirama’s tongue was running along a razor-sharp edge, and it cut through the veins in its muscle like a knife carving butter. Hot, red blood dripped from his mouth, and Hashirama lapped it up, fingers curling around the shaft, taking it into his mouth. Mito moaned, her bright red eyes flaring in the darkness, and Hashirama felt his jaw pop as it stretched.

“Disgusting,” Mito whispered. “Did you always want this? Even when we were children?” She laughed, and thrust her hips upward, the sword in her chest scraping against her cuirass as she did so. Her hands pulled harshly at Hashirama’s hair and he gagged as she forced him down. “But this isn’t the right fantasy, is it?” Mito continued, in that voice that wasn’t her own. “You clearly didn’t want this _that_ badly, or you wouldn’t have murdered me. No, you wanted something more like _this_ , right?”

The cock in Hashirama’s mouth burst like a rotten fruit, and writhing maggots spilled down his throat. Hashirama gagged, choking - as he spat them out, a hand roughly seized his chin and said, “You wanted a cunt to fuck, a wife that would bear you sons, didn’t you? Well, here you go, Hashirama.” And he was shoved back down, between Madara’s legs, his hands tearing at the hips before him as his tongue pressed into the slick folds.

Mito stifled a cry, hips bucking, but Hashirama didn’t notice. The river water filled his mouth, the gravel underneath them broke through the skin on his knees.

Hashirama looked up, chin slick with blood, over Mito’s decaying abdomen. It was swollen and bloated, like it had been left underwater for too long and had begun to rot.

“Fuck me, Hashirama,” Mito said in two voices, black bile pouring out of her broken mouth.

Hashirama ran his hands up her arms, and her skin sloughed off at his touch. He kissed her neck, under her jaw, and worms erupted from her flesh. Mito’s eyes were hollow sockets, her black hair spread over the futon like an oil spill. Hashirama kissed her, fully, deeply, and ran his tongue over the sharp rocks where her teeth should be.

“Fuck me, Hashirama,” Mito demanded in a dead man’s voice.

Hashirama pulled her legs apart, snapping the joints that had become too stiff to move, positioned himself - and in one, swift motion, sank deep. Madara’s hands clawed at his back and Madara’s armor scraped at his chest as Mito writhed under him.

“Is this what you thought it would be like?” Madara said, flushed and disheveled, jaw arched back to reveal the pale line of his throat. “Did you think I would moan, if you gave me bruises? Did you think I would bite?”

Madara surged upwards, lips touching Hashirama’s neck in a mockery of a kiss - and then he bit down, teeth puncturing skin and tendons, crushing Hashirama’s esophagus, and Hashirama bucked over him, head craning backwards as he desperately tried to draw in a breath through the pain.

“Would you have tried harder to get me back if I had a different hole for you to fuck?” Madara wondered, licking the blood off his teeth. Hashirama slammed his hips down, if only to get him to shut up - hands scrabbled at his chest, but they weren’t Madara’s hands, which he was infinitely more concerned about - one of them was wrapped around the sword sticking out of his chest; the other was pulling at his own cock as Hashirama rammed into him again, and again.

The sword began to slide free, inch by inch. Violent red blood pooled around the cut as Madara worked it loose, dripping down his bare sides, around his breasts. Hashirama followed the trails with his tongue, and Mito clutched at his head as he lapped at the base of the sword.

“Do you really think you deserve any of this?” Madara asked, and the sword came free with a sickening crunch. The blade spun, tip resting on Hashirama’s cheekbone, under his eye. Hashirama seized the hand holding it by the wrist and pinned it to the bed - his other hand went around Madara’s throat and he began to squeeze. The river thundered around them as Hashirama’s hips snapped forward. “Wouldn’t it be better,” Madara said, voice calm even as his body thrashed, “if you killed yourself, as well? Whatever hell I ended up in, you’re surely destined for the same. You hurt everything you touch, Hashirama - you’re like a savage animal. You can’t control your own strength. _Can’t you see she’s trying to fight you off_?”

Hashirama stopped dead, eyes suddenly, painfully clear, hands going slack. Mito was lying underneath him, sucking in ragged gasps of air, her now-free hands coming up to clutch at her throat.

“Mito,” Hashirama said, horror sinking in. He dimly became aware of a stinging pain on his face and arms - he was covered in long, red scratches.

Mito kicked herself backwards, hands coming up to cover her mouth as tears welled up in her eyes. There were cuts on her arms, as well – long, jagged strips of red, that oozed dark red.

“Mito, I’m so sorry,” Hashirama said, getting to his knees.

Mito shook her head, a ragged sob escaping from a throat that was already beginning to bruise dark purple. She pushed back further; eyes fixed on him like he was about to snap –

Then she got to her feet and ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka, the chapter where hashirama tries to have normal vanilla sex with his beautiful wife.
> 
> also! the views expressed in this chapter are not reflective of madara himself! everything u see and hear in this is hashirama's own brain doing horrible, horrible things to him :)
> 
> incredibly self indulgent fanart here: https://ancharan. tumblr .com/post/623712925492903936/tfw-ur-hot-wife-kinda-starts-to-looks-like-that


End file.
